Little soul, little perpetually undressed one,Do now as I bid you, climbThe shelf-like branches of the spruce tree;Wait at the top, attentive, likeA sentry or look-out. He will be home soon;It behooves you to beGenerous. You have not been completelyPerfect either; with your troublesome bodyYou have done things you shouldn'tDiscuss in poems. ThereforeCall out to him over the open water, over the brightWaterWith your dark song, with your grasping,Unnatural song--passionate,Like Maria Callas. WhoWouldn't want you? Whose most demonic appetiteCould you possibly fail to answer? SoonHe will return from wherever he goes in theMeantime,Suntanned from his time away, wantingHis grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him,You must shake the boughs of the treeTo get his attention,But carefully, carefully, lestHis beautiful face be marredBy too many falling needles.